And she had promised him. He needed her. The words she had spoken to Madge, not dreaming then of their swift application. They came back to her. “God has called me. He girded His sword upon me.” What right had she to leave it rusting1 in its scabbard, turning aside from the pathway pointed2 out to her because of one weak, useless life, crouching3 in her way. It was not as if she were being asked to do evil herself that good might come. The decision had been taken out of her hands. All she had to do was to remain quiescent4, not interfering5, awaiting her orders. Her business was with her own part, not with another’s. To be willing to sacrifice oneself: that was at the root of all service. Sometimes it was one’s own duty, sometimes that of another. Must one never go forward because another steps out of one’s way, voluntarily? Besides, she might have been mistaken. That picture, ever before her, of the woman pausing with the brush above her tongue—that little stilled gasp6! It may have been but a phantasm, born of her own fevered imagination. She clung to that, desperately7.
It was the task that had been entrusted8 to her. How could he hope to succeed without her. With her, he would be all powerful—accomplish the end for which he had been sent into the world. Society counts for so much in England. What public man had ever won through without its assistance. As Greyson had said: it is the dinner-table that rules. She could win it over to his side. That mission to Paris that she had undertaken for Mrs. Denton, that had brought her into contact with diplomatists, politicians, the leaders and the rulers, the bearers of names known and honoured in history. They had accepted her as one of themselves. She had influenced them, swayed them. That afternoon at Folk’s studio, where all eyes had followed her, where famous men and women had waited to attract her notice, had hung upon her words. Even at school, at college, she had always commanded willing homage9. As Greyson had once told her, it was herself—her personality that was her greatest asset. Was it to be utterly10 wasted? There were hundreds of impersonal11, sexless women, equipped for nothing else, with pens as keen if not keener than hers. That was not the talent with which she had been entrusted—for which she would have to account. It was her beauty, her power to charm, to draw after her—to compel by the mere12 exercise of her will. Hitherto Beauty had been content to barter13 itself for mere coin of the realm—for ease and luxury and pleasure. She only asked to be allowed to spend it in service. As his wife, she could use it to fine ends. By herself she was helpless. One must take the world as one finds it. It gives the unmated woman no opportunity to employ the special gifts with which God has endowed her—except for evil. As the wife of a rising statesman, she could be a force for progress. She could become another Madame Roland; gather round her all that was best of English social life; give back to it its lost position in the vanguard of thought.
She could strengthen him, give him courage. Without her, he would always remain the mere fighter, doubtful of himself. The confidence, the inspiration, necessary for leadership, she alone could bring to him. Each by themselves was incomplete. Together, they would be the whole. They would build the city of their dreams.
She seemed to have become a wandering spirit rather than a living being. She had no sense of time or place. Once she had started, hearing herself laugh. She was seated at a table, and was talking. And then she had passed back into forgetfulness. Now, from somewhere, she was gazing downward. Roofs, domes14 and towers lay stretched before her, emerging from a sea of shadows. She held out her arms towards them and the tears came to her eyes. The poor tired people were calling to her to join with him to help them. Should she fail them—turn deaf ears to the myriad15 because of pity for one useless, feeble life?
She had been fashioned to be his helpmate, as surely as if she had been made of the same bone. Nature was at one with God. Spirit and body both yearned16 for him. It was not position—power for herself that she craved17. The marriage market—if that had been her desire: it had always been open to her. She had the gold that buys these things. Wealth, ambition: they had been offered to her—spread out temptingly before her eyes. They were always within her means, if ever she chose to purchase them. It was this man alone to whom she had ever felt drawn19—this man of the people, with that suggestion about him of something primitive20, untamed, causing her always in his presence that faint, compelling thrill of fear, who stirred her blood as none of the polished men of her own class had ever done. His kind, strong, ugly face: it moved beside her: its fearless, tender eyes now pleading, now commanding.
He needed her. She heard his passionate21, low voice, as she had heard it in the little garden above Meudon: “Because you won’t be there; and without you I can do nothing.” What right had this poor, worn-out shadow to stand between them, to the end? Had love and life no claims, but only weakness? She had taken all, had given nothing. It was but reparation she was making. Why stop her?
She was alone in a maze22 of narrow, silent streets that ended always in a high blank wall. It seemed impossible to get away from this blank wall. Whatever way she turned she was always coming back to it.
What was she to do? Drag the woman back to life against her will—lead her back to him to be a chain about his feet until the end? Then leave him to fight the battle alone?
And herself? All her world had been watching and would know. She had counted her chickens before they were dead. She had set her cap at the man, reckoning him already widowed; and his wife had come to life and snatched it from her head. She could hear the laughter—the half amused, half contemptuous pity for her “rotten bad luck.” She would be their standing23 jest, till she was forgotten.
What would life leave to her? A lonely lodging24 and a pot of ink that she would come to hate the smell of. She could never marry. It would be but her body that she could give to any other man. Not even for the sake of her dreams could she bring herself to that. It might have been possible before, but not now. She could have won the victory over herself, but for hope, that had kindled25 the smouldering embers of her passion into flame. What cunning devil had flung open this door, showing her all her heart’s desire, merely that she should be called upon to slam it to in her own face?
A fierce anger blazed up in her brain. Why should she listen? Why had reason been given to us if we were not to use it—weigh good and evil in the balance and decide for ourselves where lay the nobler gain? Were we to be led hither and thither26 like blind children? What was right—what wrong, but what our own God-given judgment27 told us? Was it wrong of the woman to perform this act of self-renunciation, yielding up all things to love? No, it was great—heroic of her. It would be her cross of victory, her crown.
She would accept it. The wonder of it should cast out her doubts and fears. She would seek to make herself worthy30 of it. Consecrate31 it with her steadfastness32, her devotion.
She thought it ended. But yet she sat there motionless.
What was plucking at her sleeve—still holding her?
Unknowing, she had entered a small garden. It formed a passage between two streets, and was left open day and night. It was but a narrow strip of rank grass and withered33 shrubs34 with an asphalte pathway widening to a circle in the centre, where stood a gas lamp and two seats, facing one another.
And suddenly it came to her that this was her Garden of Gethsemane; and a dull laugh broke from her that she could not help. It was such a ridiculous apology for Gethsemane. There was not a corner in which one could possibly pray. Only these two iron seats, one each side of the gaunt gas lamp that glared down upon them. Even the withered shrubs were fenced off behind a railing. A ragged35 figure sprawled36 upon the bench opposite to her. It snored gently, and its breath came laden37 with the odour of cheap whisky.
But it was her Gethsemane: the best that Fate had been able to do for her. It was here that her choice would be made. She felt that.
And there rose before her the vision of that other Garden of Gethsemane with, below it, the soft lights of the city shining through the trees; and above, clear against the starlit sky, the cold, dark cross.
It was only a little cross, hers, by comparison. She could see that. They seemed to be standing side by side. But then she was only a woman—little more than a girl. And her courage was so small. She thought He ought to know that. For her, it was quite a big cross. She wondered if He had been listening to all her arguments. There was really a good deal of sense in some of them. Perhaps He would understand. Not all His prayer had come down to us. He, too, had put up a fight for life. He, too, was young. For Him, also, life must have seemed but just beginning. Perhaps He, too, had felt that His duty still lay among the people—teaching, guiding, healing them. To Him, too, life must have been sweet with its noble work, its loving comradeship. Even from Him the words had to be wrung38: “Thy will, not Mine, be done.”
She whispered them at last. Not bravely, at all. Feebly, haltingly, with a little sob39: her forehead pressed against the cold iron seat, as if that could help her.
She thought that even then God might reconsider it—see her point of view. Perhaps He would send her a sign.
The ragged figure on the bench opposite opened its eyes, stared at her; then went to sleep again. A prowling cat paused to rub itself against her foot, but meeting no response, passed on. Through an open window, somewhere near, filtered the sound of a child’s low whimpering.
It was daylight when she awoke. She was cold and her limbs ached. Slowly her senses came back to her. The seat opposite was vacant. The gas lamp showed but a faint blue point of flame. Her dress was torn, her boots soiled and muddy. Strands40 of her hair had escaped from underneath41 her hat.
She looked at her watch. Fortunately it was still early. She would be able to let herself in before anyone was up. It was but a little way. She wondered, while rearranging her hair, what day it was. She would find out, when she got home, from the newspaper.
In the street she paused a moment and looked back through the railings. It seemed even still more sordid42 in the daylight: the sooty grass and the withered shrubs and the asphalte pathway strewn with dirty paper. And again a laugh she could not help broke from her. Her Garden of Gethsemane!
She sent a brief letter round to Phillips, and a telegram to the nurse, preparing them for what she meant to do. She had just time to pack a small trunk and catch the morning train. At Folkestone, she drove first to a house where she herself had once lodged43 and fixed44 things to her satisfaction. The nurse was waiting for her in the downstairs room, and opened the door to her. She was opposed to Joan’s interference. But Joan had come prepared for that. “Let me have a talk with her,” she said. “I think I’ve found out what it is that is causing all the trouble.”
The nurse shot her a swift glance. “I’m glad of that,” she said dryly. She let Joan go upstairs.
Mrs. Phillips was asleep. Joan seated herself beside the bed and waited. She had not yet made herself up for the day and the dyed hair was hidden beneath a white, close-fitting cap. The pale, thin face with its closed eyes looked strangely young. Suddenly the thin hands clasped, and her lips moved, as if she were praying in her sleep. Perhaps she also was dreaming of Gethsemane. It must be quite a crowded garden, if only we could see it.
After a while, her eyes opened. Joan drew her chair nearer and slipped her arm in under her, and their eyes met.
“You’re not playing the game,” whispered Joan, shaking her head. “I only promised on condition that you would try to get well.”
The woman made no attempt to deny. Something told her that Joan had learned her secret. She glanced towards the door. Joan had closed it.
“Don’t drag me back,” she whispered. “It’s all finished.” She raised herself up and put her arms about Joan’s neck. “It was hard at first, and I hated you. And then it came to me that this was what I had been wanting to do, all my life—something to help him, that nobody else could do. Don’t take it from me.”
“I know,” whispered Joan. “I’ve been there, too. I knew you were doing it, though I didn’t quite know how—till the other day. I wouldn’t think. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t. I know all you can say. I’ve been listening to it. It was right of you to want to give it all up to me for his sake. But it would be wrong of me to take it. I don’t quite see why. I can’t explain it. But I mustn’t. So you see it would be no good.”
“But I’m so useless,” pleaded the woman.
“I said that,” answered Joan. “I wanted to do it and I talked and talked, so hard. I said everything I could think of. But that was the only answer: I mustn’t do it.”
They remained for a while with their arms round one another. It struck Joan as curious, even at the time, that all feeling of superiority had gone out of her. They might have been two puzzled children that had met one another on a path that neither knew. But Joan was the stronger character.
“I want you to give me up that box,” she said, “and to come away with me where I can be with you and take care of you until you are well.”
Mrs. Phillips made yet another effort. “Have you thought about him?” she asked.
Joan answered with a faint smile. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I didn’t forget that argument in case it hadn’t occurred to the Lord.”
“Perhaps,” she added, “the helpmate theory was intended to apply only to our bodies. There was nothing said about our souls. Perhaps God doesn’t have to work in pairs. Perhaps we were meant to stand alone.”
Mrs. Phillips’s thin hands were playing nervously45 with the bed clothes. There still seemed something that she had to say. As if Joan hadn’t thought of everything. Her eyes were fixed upon the narrow strip of light between the window curtains.
“You don’t think you could, dear,” she whispered, “if I didn’t do anything wicked any more. But just let things take their course.”
“You see, dear,” she went on, her face still turned away, “I thought it all finished. It will be hard for me to go back to him, knowing as I do now that he doesn’t want me. I shall always feel that I am in his way. And Hilda,” she added after a pause, “she will hate me.”
Joan looked at the white patient face and was silent. What would be the use of senseless contradiction. The woman knew. It would only seem an added stab of mockery. She knelt beside the bed, and took the thin hands in hers.
“I think God must want you very badly,” she said, “or He wouldn’t have laid so heavy a cross upon you. You will come?”
The woman did not answer in words. The big tears were rolling down her cheeks. There was no paint to mingle46 with and mar18 them. She drew the little metal box from under the pillow and gave it into Joan’s hands.
Joan crept out softly from the room.
The nurse was standing by the window. She turned sharply on Joan’s entrance. Joan slipped the box into her hands.
The nurse raised the lid. “What a fool I’ve been,” she said. “I never thought of that.”
She held out a large strong hand and gave Joan a longish grip. “You’re right,” she said, “we must get her out of this house at once. Forgive me.”
Phillips had been called up north and wired that he would not be able to get down till the Wednesday evening. Joan met him at the station.
“She won’t be expecting you, just yet,” she explained. “We might have a little walk.”
She waited till they had reached a quiet road leading to the hills.
“You will find her changed,” she said. “Mentally, I mean. Though she will try not to show it. She was dying for your sake—to set you free. Hilda seems to have had a talk with her and to have spared her no part of the truth. Her great love for you made the sacrifice possible and even welcome. It was the one gift she had in her hands. She was giving it gladly, proudly. So far as she was concerned, it would have been kinder to let her make an end of it. But during the last few days I have come to the conclusion there is a law within us that we may not argue with. She is coming back to life, knowing you no longer want her, that she is only in the way. Perhaps you may be able to think of something to say or do that will lessen47 her martyrdom. I can’t.”
“Quite cleverly. So as to avoid all danger of after discovery: that might have hurt us,” she answered.
They walked in silence, and coming to a road that led back into the town, he turned down it. She had the feeling she was following him without his knowing it. A cab was standing outside the gate of a house, having just discharged its fare. He seemed to have suddenly recollected50 her.
“Do you mind?” he said. “We shall get there so much quicker.”
“You go,” she said. “I’ll stroll on quietly.”
“You’re sure?” he said.
“I would rather,” she answered.
It struck her that he was relieved. He gave the man the address, speaking hurriedly, and jumped in.
She had gone on. She heard the closing of the door behind her, and the next moment the cab passed her.
She did not see him again that night. They met in the morning at breakfast. A curious strangeness to each other seemed to have grown up between them, as if they had known one another long ago, and had half forgotten. When they had finished she rose to leave; but he asked her to stop, and, after the table had been cleared, he walked up and down the room, while she sat sideways on the window seat from where she could watch the little ships moving to and fro across the horizon, like painted figures in a show.
“I had a long talk with Nan last night,” he said. “And, trying to explain it to her, I came a little nearer to understanding it myself. My love for you would have been strong enough to ruin both of us. I see that now. It would have dominated every other thought in me. It would have swallowed up my dreams. It would have been blind, unscrupulous. Married to you, I should have aimed only at success. It would not have been your fault. You would not have known. About mere birth I should never have troubled myself. I’ve met daughters of a hundred earls—more or less: clever, jolly little women I could have chucked under the chin and have been chummy with. Nature creates her own ranks, and puts her ban upon misalliances. Every time I took you in my arms I should have felt that you had stepped down from your proper order to mate yourself with me and that it was up to me to make the sacrifice good to you by giving you power—position. Already within the last few weeks, when it looked as if this thing was going to be possible, I have been thinking against my will of a compromise with Carleton that would give me his support. This coming election was beginning to have terrors for me that I have never before felt. The thought of defeat—having to go back to comparative poverty, to comparative obscurity, with you as my wife, was growing into a nightmare. I should have wanted wealth, fame, victory, for your sake—to see you honoured, courted, envied, finely dressed and finely housed—grateful to me for having won for you these things. It wasn’t honest, healthy love—the love that unites, that makes a man willing to take as well as to give, that I felt for you; it was worship that separates a man from a woman, that puts fear between them. It isn’t good that man should worship a woman. He can’t serve God and woman. Their interests are liable to clash. Nan’s my helpmate—just a loving woman that the Lord brought to me and gave me when I was alone—that I still love. I didn’t know it till last night. She will never stand in my way. I haven’t to put her against my duty. She will leave me free to obey the voice that calls to me. And no man can hear that voice but himself.”
He had been speaking in a clear, self-confident tone, as if at last he saw his road before him to the end; and felt that nothing else mattered but that he should go forward hopefully, unfalteringly. Now he paused, and his eyes wandered. But the lines about his strong mouth deepened.
“Perhaps, I am not of the stuff that conquerors52 are made,” he went on. “Perhaps, if I were, I should be thinking differently. It comes to me sometimes that I may be one of those intended only to prepare the way—that for me there may be only the endless struggle. I may have to face unpopularity, abuse, failure. She won’t mind.”
“Nor would you,” he added, turning to her suddenly for the first time, “I know that. But I should be afraid—for you.”
She had listened to him without interrupting, and even now she did not speak for a while.
It was hard not to. She wanted to tell him that he was all wrong—at least, so far as she was concerned. It. was not the conqueror51 she loved in him; it was the fighter. Not in the hour of triumph but in the hour of despair she would have yearned to put her arms about him. “Unpopularity, abuse, failure,” it was against the fear of such that she would have guarded him. Yes, she had dreamed of leadership, influence, command. But it was the leadership of the valiant53 few against the hosts of the oppressors that she claimed. Wealth, honours! Would she have given up a life of ease, shut herself off from society, if these had been her standards? “Mésalliance!” Had the male animal no instinct, telling it when it was loved with all a woman’s being, so that any other union would be her degradation54.
It was better for him he should think as he did. She rose and held out her hand.
“I will stay with her for a little while,” she said. “Till I feel there is no more need. Then I must get back to work.”
He looked into her eyes, holding her hand, and she felt his body trembling. She knew he was about to speak, and held up a warning hand.
“That’s all, my lad,” she said with a smile. “My love to you, and God speed you.”
Mrs. Phillips progressed slowly but steadily55. Life was returning to her, but it was not the same. Out of those days there had come to her a gentle dignity, a strengthening and refining. The face, now pale and drawn, had lost its foolishness. Under the thin, white hair, and in spite of its deep lines, it had grown younger. A great patience, a child-like thoughtfulness had come into the quiet eyes.
She was sitting by the window, her hands folded. Joan had been reading to her, and the chapter finished, she had closed the book and her thoughts had been wandering. Mrs. Phillips’s voice recalled them.
“Do you remember that day, my dear,” she said, “when we went furnishing together. And I would have all the wrong things. And you let me.”
“Yes,” answered Joan with a laugh. “They were pretty awful, some of them.”
“I was just wondering,” she went on. “It was a pity, wasn’t it? I was silly and began to cry.”
“I expect that was it,” Joan confessed. “It interferes56 with our reason at times.”
“It was only a little thing, of course, that,” she answered. “But I’ve been thinking it must be that that’s at the bottom of it all; and that is why God lets there be weak things—children and little animals and men and women in pain, that we feel sorry for, so that people like you and Robert and so many others are willing to give up all your lives to helping57 them. And that is what He wants.”
“Perhaps God cannot help there being weak things,” answered Joan. “Perhaps He, too, is sorry for them.”
“It comes to the same thing, doesn’t it, dear?” she answered. “They are there, anyhow. And that is how He knows those who are willing to serve Him: by their being pitiful.”
They fell into a silence. Joan found herself dreaming.
Yes, it was true. It must have been the beginning of all things. Man, pitiless, deaf, blind, groping in the darkness, knowing not even himself. And to her vision, far off, out of the mist, he shaped himself before her: that dim, first standard-bearer of the Lord, the man who first felt pity. Savage58, brutish, dumb—lonely there amid the desolation, staring down at some hurt creature, man or beast it mattered not, his dull eyes troubled with a strange new pain he understood not.
And suddenly, as he stooped, there must have come a great light into his eyes.
Man had heard God’s voice across the deep, and had made answer.
该作者的其它作品
杰罗米·K·杰罗米 Jerome Klapka Jerome
杰罗米·K·杰罗米 Jerome Klapka Jerome
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rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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pointed
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crouching
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quiescent
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interfering
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gasp
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desperately
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entrusted
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homage
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utterly
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impersonal
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mere
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barter
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domes
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primitive
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passionate
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kindled
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dishonour
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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